


It All Began with Pancakes

by ApareciumTheAwkwardAuthor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Commissioned Work, Drarry, Eventual Smut, Food Sex, I'll add tags as we go, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fill, Rating is based on end work, needs britpicked, some American slang/terms probably snuck in there, title may change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 00:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13986918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApareciumTheAwkwardAuthor/pseuds/ApareciumTheAwkwardAuthor
Summary: They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but perhaps that's also the path towards recovery.When Draco and Harry begin a ritual of nightly meetings in the Hogwarts kitchens, neither of them know what to expect from it, and what does happen is something neither could have predicted.(Temporary hiatus.)





	1. It All Began with Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

> Promt #661 on DrarryPromptOfTheDay (tumblr): 8th year, Draco and Harry both go to the kitchens during sleepless nights. Harry starts to teach Draco how to cook.
> 
> Commissioned by Anonymous
> 
> Message for commission information and prices
> 
> Currently unbetad
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: references to PTSD

Nights are too quiet now.

The Slytherin dorm is nearly empty. There’s no cacophony of snores from Crabbe’s bed. No scuffle of sheets as Blaise restlessly shifts in his sleep. Nothing to keep his mind from his memories. 

Despite the terror of his dreams, when Draco wakes, he does it silently; his eyes snap open but he doesn’t shift or jerk or sit up. He’d learned to stifle his reactions into nothingness, first from his father, who resented any show of fear, then from his mother, who was terrified of her son dying for reacting the wrong way in Voldemort’s presence. Draco was grateful for it at the time -- he’s quite sure it really did save his life once or twice -- but now even once he was awake, he had no outlet for his fear.

In the silence of the room, his stomach snarled. He’d missed dinner again. And lunch. The Great Hall wasn’t exactly a friendly place for the Slytherins and he’d used studying as an excuse to avoid it. Not that that was a lie; now that his name was no longer an advantage, his mother made a point of reminding him that all he had going for him in the world was his grades. 

Donning a robe, Draco traded the silence of the dorms for the silence of the halls. He passed a prefect without speaking, and they ignored him in turn; after the war, people wandered the halls at night more often than not, and the rule was revoked for anyone second-year and beyond. In 5 years, when the current first years were the oldest, things would be back to normal, but for now, the child veterans were allowed their freedom.

In the end, Draco found himself raising a finger to awkwardly prod a oil painted pear. He’d never gone to the kitchens before but his stomach had the reins now and he stepped inside as soon as the painting shifted. 

“Jesus Christ!”

Draco didn’t jump at the voice. He simply turned his head to find its source, and let his expression relax and sour at once when it landed on none other than Harry Potter, the berk hero himself. He was dressed in a dreadful oversized jumper that draped to his knees and bared far too much of his chest to be decent, never mind the cotton shirt that blocked Draco from actually seeing skin, and black pants that looked to be made of a soft, dense black fabric. He looked...heavy. Like his entire body was being pulled downward, from the slump of his shoulders to the skin under his eyes. The only part of him that seemed to have any life to it was his hair, which had never allowed itself to be affected by gravity, much less something so mundane as a sleepless night.

“Sorry,” Draco said, too tired for fights or pretenses. “I’ll leave you be.”

“Wait!” 

Draco halted with one foot over the lip of the entrance and turned his head to find that Potter had taken a step with him and had his hand absurdly raised as though to reach out for him. He cocked a brow, and the hand went down to rub instead at Potter’s arm.

“I just…” The man seemed at a loss for words, which Draco spitefully mused was really nothing new. Then Potter asked, “do you like pancakes?”, and that did take him by surprise.

“They’re… fine.” Draco answered, and pulled his foot back inside. “A little sweet for my tastes.” The lie was automatic; Draco enjoyed sweet foods immensely, but crowing over desserts was unbecoming for a Malfoy Man.

“Oh,” Potter answered, oddly dejected. “Okay then. I’d just…” he trailed off and motioned to a plate beside him, which Draco hadn’t noticed. It was heaped with a stack of pancakes, light brown and fluffy and at least thirty high. 

“Feeding the entire Weasley clan, are you?” If there was less bite to his words than normal, Draco would blame his exhaustion.

Instead of getting angry, Potter let out a small huff of breath and shook his head with a wry smile. “Guess so,” he returned, then added, “you want some?”

Draco’s stomach answered for him, and Potter’s grin spread. 

“Bug off,” Draco demanded, and took a seat at one the bar stoods the lined the center counter.

Potter served him first, made a point to get him a drink and his cutlery and napkins, and thankfully said nothing when Draco drowned his pancakes in blueberry syrup. They ate in silence, then parted with a nod when they were done. It wasn’t friendly per say, but it was something, and Draco slept better for it.


	2. Eggs and Agreements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco makes "eggs".
> 
> Harry makes EGGS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: none

It was nearly a week before Draco went back to the kitchens and he felt strangely disappointed when he found the room empty. The candles flickered to life as he entered and everything was perfectly clean, and Draco abruptly realized he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He hadn’t exactly cooked before; he’d watched the elves a few times when he was younger, but his father had always clipped his ear and dragged him back to his studying before long.

Still. How hard could it be? If Potter could manage, then it would be fine. It couldn’t be too different from potions and Potter was shite at that. 

In the end, it was entirely different from potions. Without a recipe to follow and instructions to guide, it had taken Draco three tries to manage a plate of only slightly burnt eggs, which he was halfway through eating -- mostly out of spite; it wasn’t as though it tasted good -- when the painting swung open behind him.

He didn’t have to look to know it was Potter, but he did anyways. The man was in pretty much the same outfit as last time, a different shirt peeking out from the drape of the jumper’s collar, and he paused in the doorway until, after a heavy pause, Draco simply nodded to him and turned back to his food.

Potter began pulling out equipment with an ease Draco hadn’t had; it had taken the Slytherin almost ten minutes just to find a pan. He paused at the trash bin, and glanced between it and Draco’s plate, amusement growing on his face. “Want me to make you something else?” he offered, and Draco might have accepted if it weren’t for that smug little lit to his tone. 

“It’s fine,” Draco snipped, then grimaced and pulled a bit of shell from between his lips before glaring and pointing at Potter. “Not one word.”

Potter held up his hands with a placating shrug, then stole the plate and, to Draco’s shock, picked up a lump of egg between his fingers and ate it. “Did you use any spices?” he asked, and dumped the rest into the trash.

Draco would have argued -- he hadn’t said Harry could throw them out -- but honestly, he was glad to see them gone.

“Of course,” Draco answered, arms crossed and nose high. “Even I know that food needs salt, Potter.”

“Salt’s not a spice,” Potter countered, and opened a cabinet to start pulling down jars.

When he served the plates, the eggs were fluffier than Draco’s had been and loaded with little bits of green herbs, with a little cup of white sauce on the side. Draco took his cue from Potter, drizzling the sauce over top before digging in. 

He decided he could forgive himself for the soft little “oh” that left him at the first bite. For just being eggs, it really was good; in fact, it was better than the eggs the elves at the Manor had made, and that was saying something. 

Potter looked smug when Draco glanced over. “Good?” he confirmed, though he clearly already knew the answer. 

“Passable,” Draco returned, just to be annoying.

They left together this time, and when they reached the stairs, Potter stopped instead of heading straight up. When Draco turned back, he found the man shuffling with a frown on his face. 

“Yes?” he prompted.

“Doyouwantmetoteachyoutocook?”

It all came out in a rush and it took Draco a second to puzzle it back apart and a minute more to decide on an answer. In the end, it was the slow rise of disappointment over Harry’s face that made him agree. 

“Tomorrow,” Draco answered, turning to the dungeons. “We start with those eggs.”

**Author's Note:**

> All kudos are loved and all comments are read and adored!
> 
> Follow my IG, ApareciumTheAwkwardAuthor, for updates, exclusive art, polls, and chances to win custom writing!
> 
> This fic is on a temporary hiatus until the commissioner can afford to pay for the next chapter; they're having some money issues and have informed me it might be about a couple months or so before they can pay for the next chapter. Apologies from both myself and them for the delay!


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